I, I am a dancer
I have come home
Let me in
God I’m a dancer
A dancer dances..
Until the day she doesn’t. Until the day she can’t.
I never wanted to be a dancer with a capital “D”. I danced because I loved it, because it brought me joy and strength and it was one of the only things that made me feel like…someone. I was never as good as the other kids, and that was never the point. My first pair of tap shoes are so small that they could almost fit in the palm of an adult hand, and even then they were a touch too big for me. I started classes young, I was only three, studios usually don’t accept until five.
I never wanted to be a ballerina. If I had truly wanted to make a career as a “Dancer” perhaps I would have insisted on ballet, but I never had that side of the dream. I wanted to tap dance. And that’s what I did, for 21 years. I didn’t officially leave studio classes until I was in the middle of university, and it wasn’t an easy decision for me to come to. Even then, the door stayed open. In your heart, you never stop being a dancer, and I would jump at the chance …always. That’s why I started swing dance, when studio classes were no longer an option, I always found a way, I had to. It was a part of me. It will always be a part of me.
But three years ago, the mild pain in my left foot started to become noticeable when I wore heels for an extended period of time. I ignored it for several months, but when it steadily got more aggrevating I went to the doctor, who told me it was probably arthritis. I accepted this diagnosis with as much grace as I could (which is to say I didn’t completely lose it, only mildly) and continued on as close to normal as possible, wearing heels only for a few hours on formal nights, and lowering the height as much as possible. But within one more contract it wasn’t just after extended use that that joint was bothering me, it was the moment I put on anything remotely higher than a flat, and by this year the pain starts even when I’m walking in town in running shoes, and I can now not even wear a pair of kitten heels without the pain nearly crippling me where I sit. Yes. Sit. Walking in anything other than flats for more than a few minutes sees me more often than not favoring my left.
When this happened tonight, in shoes that until now have caused me no trouble, when I was doing nothing more active than sitting watching the show….something else struck me, hard in the middle of my rib cage.
I will never dance again.
Not with pain like this. Not unless the x-rays my GP had run before I came on this contract prove that by some lucky chance it isn’t what we think it is, that it really is just an inflamed bunion or a bone-spur that could be operated on and repaired.
But in reality…
Never again. Not like I used to.
When I hit my stride in tap in my teens, when I finally got the only solo I ever had (which I will admit I got on the strength of my voice, not my footwork) I didn’t take care of my feet, or my knees. It’s not atypical, we all go through a phase of thinking we’re indestructible, we know that logically we should always stretch, always keep our ankles wrapped and warm, our insoles fresh and pamper our feet when we’re not on stage. But when you’re 18 and you have dancer’s legs, you’re not thinking about that. You want to look pretty so you throw on heels. You want to get that one last step right so you run it through one more time, even though your insoles are worn through and you’re dancing on straight wood instead of cushioning. You always bounce back after all…and when you’re only 16 or 18…hell, 30 seems like so far away. There’s plenty of time, you’ll rest later. You’ll always rest later.
And then, even though the fact that you didn’t practice as a kid probably staved it off for several years…you hit a point where you take a step in a pair of red kitten heels and you nearly fall over because the pain that screeches up from your foot joint is so bad…and it hits you like a brick in the heart.
For this? There is no more later.
I’ve had medical officers on the ship who don’t believe me when I tell them at that 33 I have arthritis in one foot and need to take regular pain killers for it; but it’s true, that’s what being a dancer for so long, and falling prey to the all-too-common mindset that you can abuse your joints for years and always have them bounce back. I’m lucky it’s just one foot, but my heart is crying “why oh why couldn’t it have been my hands? I could just type slower if it was my hands…why does it have to be my feet?”
In a way I am proud of this pain. I know that sounds foolish, but I also suspect that any of my fellow dancers who have found themselves in similar situations will understand where I am coming from. I am proud of it because it is a war wound. I am proud of it because it means that dammit I DID IT. Maybe never professionally, maybe I never got paid for it. But I DID IT dammit. And that counts for something.
I’m stubborn of course, nothing will ever stop me dancing at every chance I get. Even if I have to buy little-kid style flat patent party shoes to go with all my formal dresses, and got to all events in my soft flat jazz slippers (which yes, I still have, and can still wear)…I will dance until the day I cannot walk a step…
But in a very real sense…my dancer days are behind me…even though my heart is saying “no, no this can’t be something that happens, this doesn’t happen to me”…
And right this very moment…I’m not 100% sure how to deal with that…
Because god…I. AM. A. DANCER